


Second Breakfast at Tiffany's

by elwinglyre



Category: Breakfast at Tiffany's - Truman Capote, The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Hobbit Sex, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 17:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8023189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: An AU where Frodo isn't adopted by Bilbo; Samwise and family are and taken in by Bilbo after his Gaffer dies from grief after Bell passes on. Where Sam (learned and humble) comes to Michael Delving and meets there one Frodo Baggins (not Golightly), who climbs through his window one cold morning (yes, he came in through the bathroom window).





	1. Highburrow Hall

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I love Breakfast at Tiffany's and hobbits. 
> 
> Beta by angharad001 and mews1945
> 
> ( With special nod to Truman Capote for the first lines)

_I am always drawn back to the places where I have lived_ , Number 3 Bagshot Row, Bilbo's home at Bag End and Highburrow Hall. It was in this old stone apartment in the Westfarthing that I experienced my first taste of city life. In Michel Delving, mere yards from the Town Hole, I lived during the innocent years before the war of the ring. During my stay at Highburrow, I never became accustomed to living above ground or the fast life of the city. The apartment's accoutrements were for one, Samwise Gamgee, son of Hamfast, a pretense. Furnished in fineries never found in Number 3, or in Bag End for that matter, the apartment was too lavish-- decorated by a well to do hobbit lass who had more than a passing interest in me. The walls were plastered and papered in a frivolous pattern of ferns and fancy foliage that my gardener roots found ostentatious. Plants weren't to be on walls but in the ground! The furniture hard and imposing, upholstered in mossy mixtures of velvet and satin which I thought far too frilly for a backside. I prefer simple comfort. 

My niche of a study afforded me that simple comfort. Book case and plain oak desk with a sturdy chair. Unnatural and out of place to those that come to visit, but for me the most natural space that apartment. By hiding in the parchment, I could forget the lace curtains and fine spun rugs. The walls would disappear, and instead the Gaffer would be weeding the garden, with me beside. I could day dream of elves, white towers and golden halls instead of polished fine-wood floors and ornate sconces.

I spent my days there at my desk. Writing, or should I say, trying to write. It seemed whatever inspiration I once had left the moment I stepped past the threshold of this place I called my new home three flights in the sky. What ever euphoric feeling that once graced me when I began my urban adventure, left my breast empty and forlorn as I spent hours with a pen in hand and no words pouring forth from the flowing tip other than the transcription for which I was paid. 

Not that I was sad, or even had cause to feel bitter. When Mr. Bilbo fled for parts unknown he thought he was doing right. Just that his leaving myself and my brothers and sisters alone at Bag End to listen to the likes of oceans of Bilbo's relatives, clamoring for hidden treasure, demanding the property as their own and stuffing odds and ends of Bilbo's down their shirts and in their pockets when they come to realize it weren't theirs-- now that grew to be a chore. In actuality, Bag End _was_ mine, _if_ I so wanted it. Left to his gardener's son and family, all in ink, witnessed by the Mayor and legal. A nasty shock to the whole Sackville-Baggineses, who thought Bag End would finally be theirs. 

Bilbo gave us all but his two most treasured items: his Ring and his Red Book. Neither mattered. To me, Bag End was hollow after Bilbo left. I'd rather have had him raising ire with Lobelia than any treasure. My former employer, my other father, my teacher and friend. Gone. He took care of us after my Gaffer passed. Took the whole Gamgee family in without so much as a blink of the eye. Treated us like his own blood and left us the lot when he disappeared to go live with the elves.

I thought of following him. I did. But I am Samwise Gamgee, not some starry eyed elf with dreams of noble conquests or a dwarve with schemes of captured treasures. Illusions such as those weren't for the likes of me. The Gaffer learned me the seasons of the land, while Bilbo learned me the secrets of the page. What a mystery there were to each, and knowing each I was torn in two. I took care of my own as best I could at Bag End, but at time came when Marigold said, 'twas time I took care of myself. 

Therefore, when the opportunity was offered to serve as a transcriber in Michel Delving and reside at the stone apartment referred to as Highburrow Hall, I wrapped twine around my most cherished books (kindly mathoms from dear Bilbo), pocked my ink and quills and bundled my modest clothing. I left. Not without a goodbye, mind you, as Bilbo did, but I left.  I left the rest to mine own at Bag End and Number 3, and I began _my_ new journey. 

Even at that time, I fancied that someday I would see Bilbo again. As I smudged the ink with my stubby fingers, I wondered what ever possessed me to conceive I could transcribe as Bilbo could, let alone make a living at it. He'd taught me my letters well enough. But, I'd rather write stories or translate elvish than enter accounts neat in a row or record hobbit family history. However, the library in Michel Delving hired a scribe in me. Now my days were for rote and dream spun writing was on my own time.

I hoped, but I never would have imagined I'd see Bilbo again years later _and_ under the circumstances I did. All this with the company of a dear friend, in truth, _more_ than friend, who I came to know well during those days I lived in that lonely stone apartment. Frodo Baggins was his name. A name I shall not let Hobbiton or Middle Earth forget. A name I shall never forget with my very last breath.  

In our days at Highburrow Hall, neither of us would have believed that we would scribble our thoughts with those of dear Bilbo's into his Red Book. 

Frodo Baggins had been a resident of  the stone apartment before I came to live there. I'd only known Frodo Baggins by name, never meeting him. I knew _of_ him. From my days in the Shire, how could I not? Tales of his colorful shenanigans were fodder for long lazy afternoon at _The Green Dragon_ near By Water-- stealing from Farmer Maggot, acting a young ruffian and being an unwelcome bad influence on his young cousins. His woeful beginnings and orphan status was an open sore to Bilbo, who wanted to bring this Frodo Baggins to Bag End, but Esmeralda Brandybuck would never hear of this. To her, Bilbo was a crazy old hobbit bachelor and no proper surrogate parent for the likes of an impressionable young hobbit such as one Frodo Baggins. Therefore, poor Bilbo saw his dear cousin (lovingly referred to as his nephew) only on his visits to Buckland, which were  infrequent to Bilbo's regret. 

But Bilbo's stories touched the young hobbit's heart (as they did mine), and young Frodo dreamed of adventure. He ran away, and ran away again until at last, the Brandybucks no longer chased after him. Frodo was old enough to know his mind, but Bilbo was blamed for filling his head with tales of elves and tall ships and the Lonely Mountain and the like. 

That is how he came to be in the apartment below mine-- at least part of the story of how he came to be there. For the time, I conveniently leave out those details which are tender spots and are best left not exposed outright but revealed slowly with much forethought and consideration for those others entangled.

Upon first coming to my first (and only) apartment, I'd catch sight of this Frodo Baggins and of course I was curious. Never was he one to be overlooked in those days. I'd heard the tales, and I knew from Bilbo his true story, not just the gossip, but I'd never met him or had been introduced. I knew he had no idea who I was. Never did I see him go out but saw him return in early daylight. He kept impossible hours, coming in when I, and most respectable hobbits, rise in the morning. He was always dressed to my eyes extravagantly. Not that he looked unattractive in his finery-- only that plush velvet and expensive satin brocade weskits and the like weren't to my thrifty taste. Times he came home alone, others with a companion, lad or lass, and most times leaving them wanting outside on the steps. 

Then there were the persistent ones. It was one of these such occasions that I finally came to meet Frodo Baggins face to face. 

I was taking a quiet bath when the window rattled behind me and burst open, cold air billowing and blowing the curtains, stamping out the toasty humid warmth of my bath. I jumped, splashing hot water across the floor. Goose bumps popped out on my skin like morning dew on rose petals. That was how I met him-- me in my all together, and Frodo in his plush embroidered weskit, hair tussled and scarf askew. 

He came in through the bathroom window.

"So sorry," were the first words I heard from him. Looking at the dandy sitting on my bathroom window frame, I concluded this intruder was not in the least sorry. 

Down below the window I heard yelling from his abandoned suitor. Pummeling the front door, and calling up "Frodo?! Be a dear Frodo and let me in!" to which Frodo pretended not to hear and instead turned his interest  within the room he'd just broken into. Mine.

"Misplaced my key-- left it somewhere," the intruder stammered bagging his head on the window frame. "Fiddlesticks! There goes my hat," he said, watching it fall. "I seem to be locked out of my apartment-- again." I knew this lad was no threat, at least to no one but himself. He slid off the sill, feet slipping on to the wet floor before asking me, "Who are you?" 

Obviously the dandy I saw before me was inebriated. I thought to myself _"Who am I? Who are you?"_ With naught to cover myself but a small washing cloth, I struggled to grab a towel off the floor next to the tub asking him, "Why are you climbing through _my_ window?"

"Sorry, wrong window," Frodo stood up, still patting his pockets. "Dear, look at my coat and trousers. All wet. Do you think this material will shrink?" 

I had to choke back a laugh. He'd not batted an eye that _I_ was naked, or that _he_ was in my apartment. 

"Dear me," he said, slipping again on the floor. "And you aren't ol' Proudfoot either?!"

"Should I be?" I asked.

"Well, this is his apartment," he responded, inspecting his trousers closer.

"Well, this apartment has been mine for going on nine weeks."

"It has? Pardon me. Sorry for the intrusion." He walked to the door, and having a second thought turned. "My name is Frodo, Frodo Baggins. And you are?"

"Samwise," I said. "Samwise Gamgee. And excuse me for not meeting your acquaintance properly, but I seem to be attired in only this thin towel."

"No need to shake my hand," Frodo said, smiling impishly. "I quite understand." 

He strolled around the bathing room, inspecting the room as carefully as he'd just inspected his trousers, picking up my soaps and feeling the linens. 

"Redecorated, I see. Very nice."

"Thank you," I said, clearing my throat. "If you don't mind?"

"Why should I mind? Go ahead and get dressed. I'll let myself out. Used to with ol' Proudfoot. The old goat. Always pawing at me. Still, I'll miss him. He helped me to move merchandise I'd acquired."

From what little I'd seen of Frodo Baggins and heard, I could guess what merchandise he'd acquired and the type of company he kept as of late. My heart was glad Mr. Bilbo wasn't around to see. 

"Now this has to be the work of a hobbit lass," Frodo said, admiring the oils and powers by my wash basin. "And one with a very educated nose," he added, whiffing the top of the bottle. "Hyacinths."

"Why, may I ask, are you still here?" 

Instead of saying, 'why excuse me' and stepping from the room, or 'so very sorry' and ducking back out the window, he sat down in the only chair in the bath, crossing his legs. It was at that very moment the banging at the front door ceased. 

"Only three possible reasons why Alfonso Brockhouse would cease rattling our door. Either he's given up and staggered home-- and _this_ has _never_ happened," he said, wagging his finger at me. "Or he's passed out drunk on the steps," to which, he stood up and poked his head out the window. "No. That leaves the last. Our impertinent landlord, Master Wellwishes, has let the most undesirable Brockhouse in the apartments. Listen. Shortly we will both hear his fists beating down my door below..."

And with that a caterwauling and banging ascended through the floorboards-- the like of which had never graced the walls of Highburrow Hall before or since. 

"Frodo!? Frodo?! Let me in. You promised one kiss. Frodo!? Frodo?!" 

I walked to the door and raised my hand to knob. If he wouldn't leave, I certainly would. I soon found this wasn't easy. He followed me to my bedroom, babbling on about wet trousers and idle landlords. Rather, I felt odd as if I was not in my own room. Instead, this Frodo Baggins, who I knew little about, sat on the edge of my feather bed like it was his own and proceeded to tell _me_ which nightshirt _he_ most preferred.  All the while, the noise downstairs escalated.

Suddenly on the top floor, Master Wellwishes bellowed out his door: "Frodo! Frodo Baggins! Take care of your guest or you'll be finding another room to rest that worthless head. And understand this: I'll make sure not one respectable place will take you into _their_ establishment!" 

With that Frodo decided he had no choice but to meet his unhappy suitor outside his door.

In my nightshirt, I followed him to my front room door. What possessed me to do this, I do not know. Curiosity was the excuse to which I  later attributed this unlikely decision.

"Not one idle moment, not one, Master Samwise," Frodo sighed, opening my door. "Only when I shut my eyes, shut my eyes and dream, do I find peace. How is it with you Samwise? Ever have a moment when the air is still, and the dew has dried and your eyes become clear? Ever had a true moment of solitary bliss?"

"Until recently, not many. And presently, not unless you leave."

In that moment, I most remember his eyes. Dancing eyes, blue, bright and flickering with trouble. I saw the flicker go out like a puff of a candle. He was honestly hurt by my words. Considering he was the one in my home, it weren't for me to feel sorry for them words. Still, I did. And the moment he saw I was sorry, he laughed. Not just a small weak laugh, one the shook the walls and made Alfonso Brockhouse look up the stairs at the ruckus.

 He saw Frodo. And he saw me in my nightshirt, and then he saw red. 

"Frodo Baggins! Who's that you're taking on with?" He barreled up the stairs, half falling and half leaping. He was much thicker and sturdier than Frodo. No way he could, even on a good day, stand up against Brockhouse. Not that it should be any of my worry.

Then I thought on Master Bilbo, and how he regretted leaving Frodo to fend on his own. The Gaffer always said I was _thick_ and _didn't have no hobbit-sense_. Least wise, from what I did next, my Gaffer was right.

Brockhouse shoved Frodo into the railing, calling him all manner of foul words. Then between them I stepped, and ill planned it was.  Brockhouse hit me, sending me flying back, through the door of my own apartment. With one swift, clever kick, Frodo slammed it shut.

There was yelling. Then there were whispers. I opened my door a crack and could barely believe the sight: Mr. Frodo was arm in arm with Brockhouse, leading him down the stairs, whispering in his ear. I cursed myself. That Frodo was nothing but a...

Then they walked past his room below mine and down the last steps, stopping at the front door.  Frodo said something I didn't catch. And opening the front door, out the suitor stepped.

I eased back quietly into my apartment.

Five days passed. I heard not one scrape of a chair or hint of a voice from below. On the sixth day, he brought me what he called an offering, of a sort: seed cake and tea.


	2. Weeding Cabbages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by angharad001 and mews1945

I was dreaming about weeding the cabbages in Mr. Bilbo's garden of all things. In particular, at war with cumbersome nodding thistle whose stubborn roots were wrapped around a rock twice the size of my fist. For every root I snapped with the blade of my hoe, a new one grew, woodier and more obstinate then before. I said to myself, _'Samwise, you're dreaming. Wake up! Wake up!'_  

The waking world eked in. 

I opened my eyes and my hoe tap, tap, tapping at the rock turned into a soft rap, rap, rapping on my window pane. The sun scolded me-- blinding my sleepy eyes and flashing me back to the Shire: 

 _"Up Samwise! There ain't no call for you to be still abed,"_ my Gaffer bellowed from out of my past. I could almost feel his chapped hands yank my quilt, rousing my lazy eyes to the morn. _"Decent respectable hobbits don't loll about,"_  he'd say.

All at once, my memories swept back to that space inside me where I kept all the moments I loved and cherished-- the same space where I'd go when life got particularly lonesome here in Michel Delving. I let my keepsakes fade and let the now filter in. 

Then my window rattled. I felt the brisk morning air welcome my face as the window flew open. 

"Breakfast," Frodo said, placing a weathered wicker basket gently upon my floor. I started at this dark silhouette against the sun blazing through my window. I sat up. 

He climbed through, legs dangling, feet settling softly to the floor. I marveled at the difference from his last awkward entrance to his latest delicate drop. 

"I brought breakfast," he repeated. He lighted in from the window and stooped down, spreading apart the cheesecloth lining the basket. I scooted up in bed, getting a quick peek inside. The sweet scent of fresh baked seed cake wafted through my room. My stomach growled. 

I watched as he meticulously arranged every item on the floor. First he took out two napkins, sharply snapping the folds from each and spread them out. Next Frodo removed a steaming teapot. Then two fine cups and saucers. He smiled at me and returned to his chore, pulling out the cake wrapped loosely in more cheesecloth. Lastly, he brought out a bunch of violets tied with twine and lay them between the cups and saucers.

Most curious. 

When he was done spreading his gift, he gave me an impish grin and brushing the cake crumbs from his hand, he said: "I was planning to leave this outside your door." He reached into his pocket. "I scratched out this note to leave with it. Umm..." He opened the note and frowned, biting his lip. "But I thought better. I don't _want_ to be such a bother, but I didn't see you stirring. The tea is best hot."

 _See me stirring?_ I wondered. _He was watching me whilst I slept?_

I pulled my quilt up to my chin.

As he poured the tea, the rich aroma interrupted my common sense. My stomach betrayed me again. Frodo grinned.

It was then I realized _how_ my morning guest was dressed. Frodo's breeches and shirt were creased and dirty, not, shall I say, his usual crisp attire. 

"You plan to stay all day in bed?" he asked. "Up! Up! I didn't wake early this morn to bake this cake only for you to turn your nose up! Come, sit next to me."

"Wake early?" I said skeptically, raising my eyebrow at his clothes.

"Oh my yes," he said. "Very early, so very early that seemingly I forgot to go to bed."

"And you baked?"

"Why yes I baked."

"Smells lovely," I said.

"Why thank you," he said. "And may I say, the tea is quite special. Do you like cream? honey?"

"A wee bit of each, please."

"Should have known that. Now, hop out of that bed and don't be shy. Sit here," he said, patting the spot on the floor near him. "You'll find I don't bite, or rather, I don't bite hard. And what is the time? Past time for you to be up and writing. That's what you do. Am I right?"

Seemingly, he _had_ been watching me. I nodded, still clutching the quilt. Watching me sleep, watching me write. What else did he watch? I scowled at him while Frodo thoughtfully added the cream and honey to my tea and stirred.

Then he poured tea for himself. The honey spun in thin golden ribbons into his cup. 

"How'd you know?" I asked defensively. 

He opened the cheesecloth and took out a knife, and carefully cut two pieces of the seed cake, placing each on the edge of the saucers. 

"Why the ink stains on your hands," he said, seriously. "I find I learn much from others by simply observing."

He stood up to hand me my tea and cake. I dropped my quilt.

"Um-m," he said, clearing his throat. I grabbed the bedding again. "No, don't. I'm sorry. Don't concern yourself about my intentions. All I'm offering is friendship. I have plenty of suitors but very few real friends. I miss that so. You remind me of my dear cousin, Merry-- the way you scowl and pretend to be so serious. The last I saw him, he was almost up to my forehead. I suppose he's taller than me now." I wondered how he managed to do that to me-- turn me inside out and made me feel like I was the intruder, not him. 

He sighed and bit into the cake. 

I thought of his past and Bilbo and all I'd heard about this Frodo Baggins, and the trouble he'd stirred. We both chewed quiet like, and the way Frodo studied me, he reminded me of Bilbo-- the way he'd get all consumed translating some of them dusty old elvish books. Frodo's eyes searched mine, like he was trying to translate me. Mayhap all he wanted was a true friend. 

I relaxed and took another bite of the cake, and I sipped the tea. Such simple gestures brought such simple happiness.

"If you'd rather I didn't come in your window, I won't," Frodo said. "Just that I'm accustomed to doing so-- after ol' Proudfoot. Habit you know."

Then my heart compelled me to say:

"Doors!? Bah. Everyone uses doors. Very common. Come through my window. Only, could you wait please until I've risen?"

Then I got out of bed and took a seat on the floor next to him.

"And what do hobbits need with tables when there is a perfectly good floor about?" I observed. My saucer clinked as I sat down next to him. 

"My sentiments exactly," he said.  

I took the time to study Frodo in turn. I noticed the thighs of his breeches and shirt weren't soiled with dirt but were but covered with what looked to be flour and sugar. _Ah, he did bake this,_ I realized. For some reason, my heart warmed more to this uninvited guest.

"This is delicious. Seed cake with apples?" I asked.

"Yes," he smiled. He sipped his tea and the steam in his face was like some kind of mist between us. Who was this Frodo Baggins? Why was he here? Was he as lonely as me?

His eyes were deceptive. At first I thought they told all about this hobbit. Large, uncommonly blue, expressive, yet they hid so well what he felt. I wondered what to converse with him about. Deep soulful discourse concerning elves? Confer intimately on life? Or mayhap common banter about the weather? I found it hard to wait for him to speak. I've always opened my mouth before thinking. Least wise in that respect I've always found it hard to be patient. Both Bilbo and my Gaffer said the only two things I had patience for were the garden and my letters. 

It seemed this Frodo, although appearing to be impulsive, was in truth not thus. He was more patient than I.

I smiled half to myself, no one was around to kick my sorry arse for speaking my mind. Therefore, tired of waiting, I spoke first.

"Can you read elvish?" I inquired. 

Frodo nodded and smiled behind the tea cup.

"Sindarin and some Quenya... I noticed your books in the other room. You have an intriguing library. Although it has been some time since I've read elvish other than from my own collection. Those I have, I've read far too many times to count, but I never tire reading them."

"I would be glad to lend you a book or two.."

"Kind of you to offer, but I shan't ask. They must be dear to you as mine are to me."

His brows leapt up and his mouth pinched. He leaned toward me and whispered: "Have you ever met an elf?"

I smiled. The very question I might have asked.

"No," I leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially, "but I've dreamt about what they might look like. Something like you I might think."

Frodo laughed.

"Why, may I ask, do you say that?"

"Begging your pardon, but you don't look like most hobbits with your fair coloring and them eyes. Not to mention the way you carry yourself..."

"Well, Samwise Gamgee," he said, taking a large bite of his crumb cake, "you don't seem the ordinary hobbit either. Most don't sit on the floor in their nightshirts sharing breakfast next to strangers or spending untold hours reading tales of the Second Age."

I wondered, was this the time to mention the reason our interests merged into the same deep stream was because we both were taught by the same dear teacher? Or should I wait for Frodo to mention Bilbo? How could he _not_ know I was Bilbo's heir? 

"Who taught you elvish?" I asked, hoping he would confess.

"My cousin. Much, much older than I. More like an uncle. He'd come often to where I lived with my younger cousins in Buckland. I've never felt I belonged  anywhere or with anyone except that sweet old uncle of mine."

He set aside his cup on his left and spread himself prone on the floor, staring up at my ceiling. 

"I should have lived with him. I wished it enough." His voice was hushed yet broken when he said these words. He swallowed back regret then closed his eyes and for long moments, he was silent. A shadow from the curtained window half hid his face. His mouth became wooden, then Frodo sighed. 

"I used to sit in the crook of an ancient oak tree, watching for Bilbo," he said. "I would wait for him to come. I'd climb way up into that tree every day, squinting my eyes, searching over the grassy hills, hoping he'd take me away on one of his adventures. Sometimes I'd drift asleep up in that old tree, and I'd dream he'd taken me with him to live. To someplace far away-- over yonder hills and wander off to the Lonely Mountain to meet dwarves and even elves, or outwit a troll or dragon. Then I wake and find myself still there in the old oak."

"This uncle, he came to see you often? He must have missed you and wanted to spend time with you."

"True, but I wanted more. A home. A real home..." He pressed his hand to his forehead and opened his eyes to look at me. "Oh bother! Why am I whining on so to you?"

I felt a bit guilty for being the one who received the gift of Bilbo's time and home whilst Frodo felt sorrowful and alone among the Bradybuck's. 

"Don't fear that you're whining... I understand. Everyone needs a place called home. You'll have a home one day and find someone you love and have your own family..."

"Love?" he spat, sitting up. "I'm sorry Samwise, but to be _in_ love? Seems all those romantic tales filling your library wall have filled _your_ head with notions as much as filled mine. No, I learned long ago... love eludes some of us... to be in love is not for me. Not that I haven't wanted it or wished for it. I have wanted to have that lightheaded feeling. Merry told me about it. Like you're floating on air and your stomach's filled with crickets. But I believe there are some who are not meant to fall in love." 

"How can you say that?"

"Those romantic tales in my Uncle Bilbo's books-- long ago I realized they were only tales of long ago and far away. Nothing I will ever touch or see. Love and adventure are not for me."

"Seems you've found plenty of adventure here," I said.

"Adventure?" He laughed. "Old coots and tart lasses instead of nasty orcs and elven maidens? Is that what it's called now..."

"Still," I said, "I don't think you should be so quick to think you're not capable of loving someone. You just haven't met the right someone."

"You mean my soul mate?" he said sarcastically. "Bah. If I had one, I'm sure to never find them in this place. Warm bodies, that's all there is. Not that I bed every lass or lad. I am a bit choosey."

"Choosey?" I said, choking on my tea.

He poured more for himself, eyeing me with suspicion.

"You're not judging me? Falling in bed with those with well lined pockets isn't shallow-- it's sensible. You, of all should know that."

His smile became thin and satisfied. I didn't like it much.

"What do you mean?" I asked, frowning.

"Don't pretend with me. I saw your guest leave last night."

I opened my mouth to speak, but snapped it shut. No use denying.

"Very attractive for an older lass. Married? Are you looking for a mother figure?"

"Now you've over-stepped your place!" I became sorry I'd  sat down next to him on the floor.

"My place? What is this really all about? Guilt over play time with the lass who _visits_ you and decorates your apartment? You should feel no guilt. I never do. It's a convenience. I look at it as a payment, charming company for shall we say, amenities."

"You're wrong. It's not that at all..."

"Then are you in love with her? Is she toying with your heart?"

I could feel my face and neck getting hot. 

"I think you are becoming a bit too nosey," I said.

"You _don't_ love her then," he said. Frodo set aside his cup and saucer and leaned close to me and spoke quietly: "You and I are not so different. What is this all about? My lack of heart or your lack of heart? Or is there a lass where you came from that has your heart captive?"

"There is a lass back home that I was very fond of, although I never told her such..."

"And where is it that you came from?"

We both said not a word, staring had at each other. Finally I spoke: "I thought you knew all about me. To hear you tell, you seem to take special interest in my life."

"I seem to remember a Gamgee who worked for my Uncle Bilbo. You wouldn't happen to be related?"

So this had all been ruse on his part. He knew. I wondered what he truly wanted-- a friend or information. 

" _You are_ ," he whispered. "Uncle Saradoc told me Bilbo had adopted a Gamgee. I thought you might be as soon as I saw the books..."

He stared down into his tea, his face dark, lost and vulnerable. He drew his legs up tight to his chest, and I felt like he was trying to make himself small. Like I used to feel with the Gaffer when he'd rankle me for spending too much time reading. I'd pretend I was invisible and fold inside myself. Frodo's slight frame tucked up tight with his crumpled clothes and tousled hair made him appear far younger than his years. What he'd said about a heart and not having one, just weren't true because it was paining him now. 

I reasoned if Bilbo saw a light in him, I should be able to see it too.

"Yes, Bilbo did take me in after my da died," I admitted. "He did want you with him, though. He loved you."

He uncoiled his arms and legs and looked up from his tea to my eyes. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

"Maybe I will borrow a few of those books..."


	3. Elven Tales and Such

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by angharad001 and mews1945 
> 
> And forgive me Capote for the first line.

The following evening I collided with Frodo on the stairs. As our foreheads knocked together, a sudden whiff and sniff from my nose forced me to discover a rather earthy smell. Thus I put the space of a few inches betwixt us, saving my nostrils further distress. Upon stepping back, I noted that it was the second time in as many days that I'd found Mr. Baggins in such a disheveled state. I had to smirk thinking on what he was most likely doing that made his hair stick out like rough bark an old hickory tree and smell like an alley-cat in heat. 

"I was coming to return this," he said, jarring me in the chest with the book I'd lent to him the prior evening. Frodo's eyes narrowed as he absently turned the book over in his hands. He pursed his lips as if to speak then scratched the back of his head with the corner of the book. I frowned. My chest became heavy worrying that maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he had no interest in the book since he was returning it so soon, and I'd taken such special care in its selection. It was one of Bilbo's favorites, and upon finding Frodo had never read it, I thought it was the perfect choice. 

I'd imagined Frodo cozy against Bilbo, listening to him read as I once did. His blue eyes wide with wonder and jaw set as he held each of Bilbo's words in his heart. The very story I gave Frodo was wondrous, elves fighting with shining swords all clashing savagely with terrifying Balrogs. I remembered sitting snug next to Bilbo in his old chair as he read the story to me with the shadowy beasts flailing the elves with whips of flame filling my imagination. 

I remembered how he laughed saying, "Samwise, breathe!" As I gasped out red-faced, I scrunched closer just so I could whiff the safe homey comfort lingering on Uncle Bilbo's weskit-- that same pipe weed Uncle Bilbo gave my Gaffer. 

He would tease me: "I think I should put this down Samwise. I'll be giving you night terrors." Then he'd set the book aside, smiling whilst I begged him to read a few pages more. His eyes would crinkle, and he'd turn the pages back ever so slowly, watching my face glow. He'd clear the old frogs from his throat and read again. It wasn't until I was older and read the story myself that I found Bilbo had slyly left out an essential part. Ah, yes there was another story--  one about love and loss in particular. I realized why Bilbo had thumbed over those pages, thinking me too young. Physically and spiritually the lovers connected, a story of a love forbidden and unabashed. 

I felt saddened that Frodo would show such disinterest in a tale with which I was still enthralled. 

"Done so soon?" I asked, as I looked down at the book in his hand. He yawned in my face and arched his back, reminding me again of that same alley cat, waking after baking in the hot sun. "Didn't you like it?" 

"No, it was delightful-- " His thumb idly stroked the gilded lettering on the tattered gray cover. "I should like to read it again sometime. Until then... I was wondering if I may borrow another?"

My heart pounded. Now I was hoping that after reading the tale, we might discuss it. The fondest memories I had of Bilbo included bantering about the meanings of words and such. I was hoping Frodo was of the same ilk. I _was_ on my way out for some smoke, ale and conversation. Instead I wondered if I could find two of the three within the walls of my own study with Frodo. I decided the mugs of brew could wait. Besides which, the conversation at _The Buck and Breeches Inn_ of late had become tired. Only so much I could stomach of Inn Keeper Rigamor's aching knees and Ol' Tom's fallen arches. Not that I'm _not_ sensitive to their complaints, especially since fallen arches can be a bother to a blacksmith such as Tom. His feet _were_ especially large after all, making me wonder if them with larger feet have larger pain. Just that it grated on my last nerve the way he swaggered around and moaned about his burden. I understood (as he so often reminded half the patrons) he could not shoe a pony sitting down, and being on his feet all day, _was_ troublesome. However, if he would sit his arse down at the Inn instead of spouting off while leaning on his heals smack dab in the middle of the floor, we'd be more compliant to listening to his complaints. Rather, we were forced to listen to him night after night, stamping his feet like he was some randy stallion. He would do best to act more like the old lame gelding he was. 

While Frodo stood with the book between us, I weighted my options. An evening with Ol' Tom or an evening with Frodo Baggins. My, the hobbit before me _was_ a bit crusty smelling. Yet half of the regulars at _The Buck and Breeches_ took to soap and water less often than once a year-- leaving the other half much like honeysuckle blooming next to a pig sty. Most could use a good drenching before they stopped to wet their throats with ale after a hard day. I sniffed the air between us then decided to stay. I turned, waving Frodo up the stairs to my apartment. His air weren't agreeable, but it weren't so foul, more musky like. Something I could abide.

As I wiggled my key in the lock,  I muttered curses under my breath. No matter how I shimmied and jimmied the key, it wouldn't turn. The tumblers were frozen quick. I'd been nursing the lock for weeks, and I'd asked Master Wellwishes almost daily for the last two weeks to fix it. I muttered his name again under my breath along with a few other words, making Frodo chuckle.

"You should know this about Wellwishes," he said, "seems the only time his landlordly ears are inclined to hear a pinch about repairs is if it pinches his pocket. His hearing miraculously improves prior to when coins in your hand drop from your hand into his. Happens coincidentally on the first day of the month. Any other moment, and you are wasting your breath; therefore, I suggest you don't waste precious words on him..." 

I palmed the key and straightened myself out.  

"What do we do then? I'm not sleeping in the hall tonight."

"I would go and ask him to let you inside with his master key, but he won't answer if he knows it's me at his door. Too many late nights knocking has left him a bit bitter. You might have more luck, Samwise."

I had a mind to speak to Wellwishes about poor maintenance of said apartment door, but I decided to take Frodo's advice and not get too may burrs stuck to our landlord's backside until he let me inside.

I knocked. After some feet shuffling, Wellwishes answered the door. He was clad in a gray, moth-eaten nightshirt, some holes of which were exceedingly large and in  places where I preferred not look. Gazing down seemed best at the time, unfortunately this drew my attention to his bowed legs, resembling bending yellow straw. He had serious bowling outward at his knees, which resembled great white knots on this log that I sat on when I used to go fishing with Jolly Cotton. I remembered the knots because Jolly'd said if you looked closely you could see an old man's dimpled face in said knot. By my Gaffer's pruning sheers, if I didn't see that same face in both his knobby knees. That and his bright red hair flaring out like one of Gandalf's rockets was so comical I forgot I was irritated. Instead I suppressed a laugh, unsuccessfully I might add. 

When he noticed Frodo was behind me, Wellwishes tried to slam his door in my face, but I grabbed the doorknob as quick as a hound after a coney. Unfortunately, Master Wellwishes was a clever old coney.

"Just one moment while I fetch the key," he said and I, like a simpleton, let the knob go. He slammed the door shut, grazing my nose.

Frodo raised his eyebrow at me as we both heard the lock click.

"But," I yelled at the door, "my key to my door doesn't work! I asked you to fix it!"

"Not my problem!" He hollered back.

"But... but... you're the landlord!" I said.

"Not my problem! You don't need a key. Have that no good, Frodo Baggins, pick the lock or climb through the window!"

Frodo shrugged.

"You shall have to live without a key until the first of the month, my lad," Frodo said, handing me my book. "Until that time, I'm afraid you'll be forced to learn the fine art of burglary. Fortunately, I am an excellent teacher."

We walked back to my door. Frodo knelt down in front of my lock, and closing one eye he peered through the keyhole.

"I can't believe I must break into my own home. And what of this burglar nonsense?"

He reached into his pocket and withdrew two fine wires.

"Yes, I'm afraid I'm a bit of a rascal. In that respect I take after Uncle Bilbo, but I don't steal from dragons. Although there was Madame Mentha Viridis, whose breath was not unlike a dragon's..."

"What are you doin' with those?" I squinted and squatted down beside him, watching him over his shoulder as he wiggling the bits of wire.

"Watch and learn from a master..." Frodo took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he worked the wires inside the keyhole. He nibbled at the insides of his cheek whilst he twisted and turned the wires slow and careful like. He sighed then rested his ear and cheek flush against my door. "A lock such as this, you feel it release in the tips of your fingers. Not unlike undressing a lass-- There."

He turned the knob, and the door opened.

"Now why didn't you do that before I went to all that trouble of going to the landlord?"

He stood up slowly, smiling. I straightened out, feeling my knee pop. 

"I don't like to give away my secrets so freely," he replied. "Also I felt seeing Wellwishes in his usual evening attire might lighten your mood."

"Hmm, yes I believe my mood has improved," I said, smiling at him in appreciation and tapping my fingers on the book. "What would you like to read next? Come in and we'll browse around and find something you might enjoy."

I showed him to my study, where the fire was burning nicely. Frodo was thumbing through the spines, reading the titles.

"Maybe you could help me and suggest something?"

I pulled a book off the top shelf.

"This is one of my favorites," I said, handing the well-worn book to Frodo. " _The Lays of Amroth_ , I think you should like this quiet well."

"Thank you so much. I must say, I couldn't put down the story you gave me yesterday. Suspense, romance and adventure. It was meant to be sung in high elvish tongue-- I'm sure of it," he said as I took a seat in my lumbering overstuffed chair near the fire. He slowly opened the cover and slid a finger down the first page reverently. Then he leaned forward and whispered:

"Reminds me of a dream I had, sitting by a shallow wooded stream with a waterfall running. I heard singing. At first I thought it is the wind since it was as subtle and close as the leaves rustling in the trees. Then I realized that it was a voice bending toward my resting place. It came closer and closer. I felt it in here," he thumps his chest. "I got all tight. I thought this might be a spell yet I wasn't afraid. More like I was a welcomed captive. My feet stuck, not that I want to leave. I stayed quiet and as still as the trees."

My eyes did not leave him, lost as he was in thoughts, his face a mixture of wonder and sorrow.

"It would be amazing, to hear them singing words such as in the books here on my shelves. Bilbo spoke of being in the House of Elrond and saying it was filled with song," I said as Frodo sat down on the arm of my chair.

Remembering Bilbo's tales in the smial during the Yule time got my eyes all misty. Frodo and I talked on for some time. Him slowly sliding off the arm of my chair next to me. With our heads together, we spoke of elves and dwarves and Bilbo's adventures, comparing the stories Bilbo told us. Seems Uncle Bilbo had a few different versions. Least wise the versions he told Frodo and me differed. 

I made tea. Then we continued our talk before the firelight, engrossed in words and their power-- both of us hungry for someone who felt the same passion. I could not help but feel blessed that I'd found a kindred soul. Least wise, one who swooned over elven tales and such. 

It grew late and Frodo shifted beside me. I thought it a frightfully uncomfortable spot, but Frodo insisted it suited him just fine. When came to discussing the rather intimate parts of the tale, I shied away. I suspected his musky smell might be partly from extricating some pent up frustrations as I'd done more than a few times when reading them same passages.

My eyes wandered to the hearth. The last log I put on the fire was too green for proper burning. It hissed and smoked. I was a might happy that log's song was filling in some of the uncomfortable quiet moments in the study with its whistling. I grasped the poker next to my leg and jostled the log. Out shot a hot ember, lighting my leg in a literal respect. The poker hit the floor with a clang, and I jumped up, swatting out the spark that lit in my breeches.

"Samwise?! You can dance!"

"Not funny," I said. Inspecting the hole, I laughed along with him despite myself. 

"I think they're ruined," he said, covering his mouth with his hand. "You'll have to wear something else tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm expecting you to come to a small party I'm having. I do mean small-- only a few friends of mine. One is a young lady, whom I'm thinking about taking in as a roommate." I frowned.  "Don't look at me with such distain," he said, flashing me one of his crooked smiles. "It's nothing like that. She prefers lasses to lads, besides which, she's quite tightly bound to one particular lass."

"That is convenient."

"Very. She's organized, neat and willing to pay her share of the rent."

"Handy, too."

"Well yes," he said, yawning. "Another guest is this fellow I've been seeing. A rather stubborn hobbit. Seems he has it in his mind that I should be his 'exclusively.' That's one reason why I'd like you to come--  I'd like your opinion of the fellow. He's helped me on occasion. Paying my rent, buying me dinner." Frodo sighed. "He feels I should drop everything when he calls on me." 

"Is it the fellow who was on the stairs the other evening?" I asked. Frodo looked at me puzzled.

"Alfonso Brockhouse? No! although this fellow-- you may have heard of him, Rusty Trawler is his name-- has much more class than to stand in the street and act a fool like Alfonso. Still Rusty is fitfully jealous." I studied Frodo. There was something in the way he said this that struck me wrong. "His jealousy is never public."

"He doesn't hit you?" I asked. Frodo shrugged.

"He's never struck me. He has said all manner of foul things to me when we're alone. It would be far easier to overlook Master Trawler's jealous streak if the fellow didn't run as shallow as the town well in Wedmath."

"He must be rich," I said flatly.

Frodo laughed. 

"He's obscenely rich. It's easier to overlook his temper and other shortcomings when he is showering me with his gratitude. He can be kind. Why should I feel bad when he's kind? He should show gratitude for my company. I am very good company."

He looked at me wickedly. I rather wanted the Frodo back who spoke elvish. 

"He has so much; he wouldn't miss a few gold coins from out of his pocket," he continued, chewing his nail. "What I don't much like is when he makes me feel like I'm one of his coins of gold."

I wasn't sure if he wanted advice or wanted an ear. Not knowing much about such things, I kept my lips buttoned tight.

"No long ago I courted a rich widow. Erm... maybe more fitting to say she courted me. Anyway this widow... Did I say she was older? Mmm, I didn't? She _was_ well preserved. Matters not in the end, since I couldn't bring myself to  marry her. Not to worry-- it wasn't that I'd _found_ my lost scruples. No, it was this dream. I dreamt she was at my funeral dabbing her eyes with a soggy hanky. She carried on something awful, saying what a faithful husband I'd been all those sixty-four years. Ack! I woke and went straight to her house and told her I'd changed my mind. T'would be my uncanny luck my dream t'was true, and she would have outlived me."  

By this time, the harvest moon was shining in bright from the study window. We'd gone through many a log on the fire this evening. I yawned so wide my jaw popped.

"Now there's this Rusty Trawler, who wants more from me," Frodo eyes closed. "How much more? More, more, more," he mumbled. His head nestled on my shoulder, and his mouth fidgeted against my ear, releasing a squeaky snore. "Then there's the other reason I want you to come to my party. Would be wonderful to gossip about the guests with you in Sindarin. Imagine their faces."

"Past my bed time," I said, hinting for him to leave, but he was now snoring steadily.

I got up carefully and adjusted Frodo in the cushions of my homey overstuffed chair and took my stiff legs off to my bed.

I lie snuggled and propped up reading when Frodo stumbled into my bedroom, raking a hand through his unruly dark hair...

"I don't like sleeping alone much," he said as he lay down and placed his head in my lap. He turned his head to look up into my eyes. "Do you mind? And I did want to ask you one more thing about that book..." 

"Mmm... what was that?" I said, setting that same book aside. 

"Do you think the Balrogs in the story had wings or were they metaphorical?"

"I think that is a question best left for them that have seen, not we who imagine."

"Wise answer," Frodo said. "Bilbo's, isn't it?" His eyelids fluttered. "I'll only rest a bit. I'll leave then. Out the window. We must give Wellwishes something juicy to gossip about... Don't say another word. Go to sleep."

I could not. I closed my eyes and feigned my most convincing snore. I listened to his breathing and the wind blowing. I don't know how much time passed with him in my lap when I felt a feathery touch on my cheek, and I heard Frodo whisper, "Oh Merry, I'm so sorry I left you." 

I asked softly, "Why are you crying?" 

He jumped up and out of bed. "It's time I went home." 

He shimmied out the window, leaving me to shut the draft he left behind.


	4. The Heir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by angharad001 and mews1945

Frodo Baggins was a bundle of contradictions to be sure. I ran into him the day before the party. I should not say 'run into' as that would infer happenstance. Rather, all the meetings were planned on Mr. Baggin's part. 

I was rather hesitant to go to Frodo's 'small to-do,' and he knew it. I told him so on his first visit that morning. I spoke plainly: "I don't want to come-- I prefer large, loud, rowdy, relaxed company."

To which he replied, "Bah! You can bend elbows at the _Buck and Breeches_ any old evening." 

I answered that I was "uncomfortable at intimate, social affairs." I had wanted to say intimate, _stuffy,_ social affairs, but I didn't wish to offend Frodo much. It seemed I did not have to offend. He admitted he loved "loud and rowdy" himself, but these affairs were "necessary." He thought coming to such a party might give me some connections to advance. Frodo asked me pointedly if I wished to remain a lowly transcriber.

Still, I declined.

I found, however, I could not ignore his invitation.

With every step of Frodo's preparation came another climb up the back arbor trellis and in through my bedroom window. With each visit he came with a new reason why I mustn't miss his get together. At first I mistook his interruptions as nervous anticipation, then later after he juggled up two different tea services asking for my opinion on each, I wondered if it was insecurity instead. I pondered this as he retrieved the linens to make sure "they did indeed coordinate" as he said. Between deciding which went best with what linens, he spoke in elvish passages from _The Lays of Amroth._ If I hadn't know better, I would have thought he was trying to impress. Rather, he followed with telling me how hysterical Amber Frostbottom's ribald jokes were and that if I failed to come tonight I would miss enormous belly laughs. Before popping back out the window, he gave me hasty advice on how one lives with no key, illustrating the best places to shimmy down without damaging wares: "It's best to package valuables carefully, then find a sturdy bag and tie it thus to your waist" was his advice. I didn't ask to what 'valuables' he might be referring-- some late night prowling I assumed not other valuables I thought, blushing inwardly. I studied the ink in my quill, letting my imagination whisk me away.

On his third trip in my window under the pretense of asking me to test the fried cakes he'd made, he tried insults to get me to come. 

"You know, I've heard word that you are a stick in the mud," he commented.

"You don't say?" I responded, wiping the ink stains from my fingers on an old rag. I placed quill back in the stand and scratched my chin.

"Yes, and I've also heard you are most unhobbit like," Frodo said, conspiratorially. "Why, I've even heard tell that you prefer pen, paper and books to good ale and Old Tobey."

"That's just plain insulting..." I said, as I leaned back in my old chair, looking Frodo square in the eye. "But yes, you could say that _is_ true."

Ahh, the sparkle went out of his eyes then. I had him.  At least I thought I had. 

I picked up a fried cake between my thumb and forefinger, inspecting it carefully, then popped it into my mouth with relish.

Very tasty.

"Raspberry-currant jam would go nicely with your fried cakes. You might want to try that."

"Dear me," he said. "I have none. That means I must get to the market." He leapt up and vanished out my window.

Despite my need for fresh air, I closed and latched the window after he departed. Not more than an hour later, I heard the persistent hollow tapping on glass in the bedroom (which I blatantly ignored even after hearing all manner of squeaking and groaning). I thought maybe I might have seen better fit to finish with hammer and nails than fastening it shut. Finally the racket ceased. Minutes later I heard the rumble of tumblers moving in my apartment door. The ruffian was picking my lock! 

I gave in, opened the door and let him in before he finished. He brushed his knees off, then picked up a basket next to him and stood. I stepped aside as he pushed his way through. He didn't meet my eyes once.

He took a periwinkle glazed tea pot out of the basket. Setting a matching cup and saucer on my table, he said matter-a-fact like, "Try the tea. It's a special blend I found at the market."

Resigned, I sat down. I could no longer deny him his company that evening. I reckoned he must want me there something fearful if he went to all this trouble. I must admit, when I told him I might be coming, the smile he rewarded me with made me feel a tad guilty for locking him out. 

Later as I dressed and prepared (making sure I'd be certain to arrive at what Frodo referred to as 'Tookishly late'), I recalled Frodo's confession to me last evening. He had no true friend. Mayhap that was the reason why Frodo had been so persistent-- I had no true friend either. 

I gazed in the mirror above my wash basin, straightening my tie and tried patting down my unruly hair. No use no how doing that. 

Whilst I rummaged for my pipe, I concluded that I was right to attend, remembering his far off look and lost voice last night whilst telling me about his dream of the elves in the wood.  I felt I owed Frodo something, recalling the wistful way he spoke of Bilbo. My company seemed such a small cost.

\------------------

I found it difficult _not_ to be punctual.  I decided the only way I could wear away the minutes was to get lost in a tale. I'd selected a book and began to read, but my mind kept turning back, anxious like, to the evening ahead. I finally settled on going just a bit early. No how could I ever be a Took.

I paced up and down the hall in front of his door, hands deep in my pockets, ticking off more time. An older couple, dressed all in finery, came up the steps toward his door. I decided to pretend I had just arrived at his door. We nodded and smiled politely to one another. The older gentle-hobbit knocked. As Frodo opened the door, I stood politely behind.

"Master and Madam Frostbottom!" Frodo said. "So glad you could come..." Looking over their shoulders at me, eyes twinkling, added, "...and Samwise Gamgee. Have you met each other's acquaintance yet?" He kissed both of them on the cheek then me. My face grew hot.

"Not formally," Madam Frostbottom said. I ducked my head. 

Frodo introduced us, then I looked around. I found myself in a room filled with the thick haze of Old Tobey and strangers. Seems I _was_ late. Tookishly. And I had the attention of more than a few guests.

Frodo smiled. "I knew you couldn't help yourself and come early, so I told you the wrong time--" he leaned in, putting his arm around my shoulder and whispering in my ear. "I thought a stylish entrance was in order..." He winked at me after, and I noticed that Mr. Frodo wasn't the only hobbit who was whispering. 

Eyes followed us as Frodo lead me to some liquid refreshments. One particular set of eyes watched on with building irritation. I took that hobbit for Rusty Trawler. He stood taller and broader than me. Dressed smartly in crisp white shirt and umber weskit, groomed immaculately with his wavy hair red parted on the side, neatly combed back.  Dark eyes and wide pupils like fire followed us. As Trawler watched, he fidgeted like he just sat on top of an ant hill. It didn't help that Frodo was openly flirting with me. Touching my hands, arms, and back, smiling and making those wide blue eyes of his dance and flicker. I had to wonder what Frodo was about.

Then Frodo said to me, "Isn't this fun? Making them all wonder?" He brushed a crumb off my weskit, resting his fingers over my heart. 

I answered plainly looking down at his hand, "I don't see no fun in this." One Rusty Trawler was now crossing the room with eyes boring holes through me.

I was about to tell Frodo, I didn't come here to make Trawler jealous when two fair young hobbit lasses stepped between us.

"And who is this?" the lass closest to Frodo asked, smiling at me. 

"And where have you been hiding him?" the other giggled.

"This is Master Samwise Gamgee. Samwise this is Gilly Goldworthy," Frodo nodded to the lass closest to him-- a tall lass for a hobbit, but with ample curves, blonde curly locks, pleasant freckled unturned nose and laughing gray eyes. "Her mother is Belle Goldworthy, daughter of  the late Baron Bolger. She's the lass I told you about--my new room mate." 

 _That was new_ , I thought to myself. I didn't know he had decided to take her in as a roommate. Rusty stepped behind Frodo. 

"And this is her close friend,  Rosa Burrows." The other lass nodded. She had a slight frame, fair coloring with blonde flowing hair like ripples in a stream. Her cheeks simply glowed. I lightly bowed and shook each of their hands in greeting. "Her father is the publisher, you may be familiar with the name, Randomhouse Burrows."

I nodded and took her hand. 

"And I'm Rusty Trawler..." he said, drawing out each syllable like taffy. Gilly and Frodo looked at each other, both rolling their eyes. "Frodo, I want to speak to you," Trawler croaked, "alone." And grabbing Frodo's forearm, he pulled him backward while Frodo laughed. I watched as Frodo talked to him, Trawler didn't look none too angry any more, just looked from Frodo to me, wondering like.

"Some day that lad is going to push someone too far," Rosa said, turning to me. "You poor dear. Are you his latest victim?"

"I don't know what you mean by victim, but if you mean he cornered me into coming here against my better judgment, then yes."

"My, he has a way of doing that, doesn't he?" Gilly acknowledged. 

Amber Frostbottom waltzed up to us at that moment, eyes dancing. Ah, I thought, she must sense trouble like a woodland elf. 

"Hello dears," she said, studying our faces. "Looks so serious over here. I perceived you needed someone to lift the mood."

"Yes, we do," Rosa said. "A bit of humor might lighten us. Perhaps you would like to share one of your infamous tales."

Over the years I got to know Amber Frostbottom well. Her ribald tales became legendary. Lesser known was one other characteristic peculiar to her. She waved hers arms around when she spoke as if she were swatting flies. Her gestures became dangerous, standing at arms length was wise as she told her wild flailing tales. My first meeting was an experience to remember.

"Perhaps..." she said, raising her arms above her head then scratching it. "Let me think. Yes, I have one fitting the occasion... It's about a young tailor from Cottonbottom and how he went into a pub and sat down next to a comely lass." 

With one swift swing Madam Frostbottom knocked Rosa's tea crumb cake to the floor. Madam Frostbottom, oblivious to this, continued her story: "The tailor asked her if the smock she wore was made from cotton or wool. She said she _'weren't sure.'_ He then asked if she was inclined to go to a room at the Inn next door and remove the said smock and partake in a folic. She responded by slapping his face soundly and stomping out the door in a huff." 

With this,  Madam Frostbottom feigned a slap, and she would have hit the side of my face if I hadn't ducked. Without missing a breath, she went on: "After she left, the barkeep whispered to the tailor, _'If you would like to know that lass better, I know a way.'_ To which the tailor answered, _'Then speak.'_ The barkeep confided, _'In Wedmath when the moon is high and full, she goes to the edge of the Southern Marshes and speaks to the sprites of the wood. If you were to dress as a sprite, follow her there, pretending to be a sprite, she would lie with you.'_ To this suggestion, the tailor took heart for it was indeed Wedmath, and the next evening the moon would be full."

At this point she paused, taking a sip of tea from Rosa. The whole room waited, listening. Frodo stood with Rusty, with a slow smile on his face. She did not seem to notice the room's anticipation, and instead continued, telling the tale to us as if we were the only ones listening: 

"The tailor made quick work the next day," she waved. "Sewing a costume with care and great skill and fashioning a clever mask so as the fair lass would think he was truly a marsh sprite. That very night he followed her donned in his glorious costume to the very edge of the Southern Marsh. She was clothed in hundreds of veils, billowing and shimmering in the moonlight. As she spoke to the Marshes, he answered, then asked her to lie with him. She agreed; however, she told him she must stay chaste-- she would let him have his way with her but only if he took her in her back side. To that she lay face down, veils surrounding her bathed in moonlight. The tailor agreed. After he finished, he stood up, pulling the mask off with relish proclaiming, _'Ha! Ha! I am no marshland sprite! I am the tailor!'_ to which the fair lass stood, pulling off her mask saying, _'Ha! Ha! I am no fair lass! I am the barkeep!'_ " At which point she through her arms up in the air, hitting Master Frostbottom so hard in the stomach that he fell backwards into Frodo, knocking him on the floor.

The room erupted in torrents of laughter. I was never quite sure if it was because of the joke or the look of surprise on Master Frostbottom's face.

"Dear me," Rosa said to me. "That was fun, but I should be playing hostess! Where are my manners? Would you like some refreshments? Something to else to drink?"

"Yes," I said, "that would be fine."

"We'll show you to the kitchen..."

I followed Gilly and Rosa as Rusty pulled Frodo up off the floor. I could still hear ripples of laughter in the room behind.

Since this was my first walk through Frodo's apartment, I noted everything. It's architecture was much like mine, although furnished much differently-- sparse yet exotic. Plush pillows on simple, yet elegant, chairs and ornate throw rugs with white walls strung with old tapestries that looked elvish. As I passed them, I hesitated-- I'd have to go back and inspect those later. 

I noted the kitchen had a much different look than the rest of his apartment. Homey, rather like the kitchen at Bag End. A spread of all manner of appetizers lined the counters-- small cakes, breads, ham, all manner of hard and soft cheeses.

"Tea or would you prefer more ale?" Rosa asked, taking my mug. 

"Ale," I said, as I took a plate and began to help myself. Just as I speared a healthy slab of ham, a tabby jumped on the counter next to the cured beef. 

Gilly shooed the cat down, but it didn't go far. It began rubbing against my leg, arching his back and flicking its tail around my ankles. As she handed my foamy mug, she said, "Frodo's cat is always into everything. Honestly."

"Frodo has a cat?" I said, taking a gulp and thinking that was a stupid comment for me to make. 

"Yes, well you could say it was more like the other way around," she said. "That old tom cat takes care of him."

"What's his name?" I asked. 

I heard Frodo over my shoulder say, "Never bothered to name him. I just call him _pussy_." 

I felt my cheeks grow hot. 

"Frodo does have an odd sense of humor," Rusty said. 

Frodo bent down behind me and picked up the tom, holding him in his arms and scratching him behind the ear. 

"Why must you pick up that cat?" Trawler asked. "You're already _covered_ in cat hair."

Frodo seemed to ignore the comment, but then he put the cat down. 

"I try my best to teach you manners and cultivation. I sincerely think you do these things to spite me."

"Sorry," Frodo said meekly. He briefly met my eyes then they flittered away. He seemed embarrassed. 

This exchange differed from all my predisposed notions of Frodo. I half wondered if this was a show for Trawler's benefit. The Frodo I'd met wouldn't placate anyone, not without purpose. It was the embarrassment that I didn't understand. 

"Frodo, go and fetch my pipe. I believe it is in my coat pocket." Frodo looked from him to me, frowning, but nodded and left. Trawler turned to me. "Frodo told me you are the Baggins' heir."  

"Why yes."

"He's so much work, yet he _is_ worth it. He is very attractive, don't you think?"

"I hadn't noticed," I lied.

"I suppose you know that Frodo's only interest in you has to do with your inheritance, which he feels is rightfully his."

"Rusty!" Gilly said.  "You can be so crude. Samwise is our guest!"

I felt as if I had been the one hit in the stomach, not Frostbottom. I was hurt. I was angry. I had let Rusty Trawler crawl under my thick hobbit skin and make it burn.

I said nothing. I stood there dumbfounded. Frodo came back in the room with pipe in hand. I didn't meet his eyes.

I excused myself quietly, and made my way for the door. Behind me I heard Frodo ask Trawler, "What did you say to him?"

I went straight to my room. forgetting that my door had locked behind me. All I thought about was how Frodo had fooled me. That far off look, those sad eyes. All lies. How had I believed that he really wanted me as his friend? I had to go down the stairs, go through the back alley and climb up the arbor trellis to enter my bedroom window. I cursed myself as I scraped my hands. When I reached it, the window was already open. As I climbed in, I saw Frodo standing next to my bed.


	5. The Chair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beat by angharad001 and mews1945

"Ignoring your guests?" I asked, tightly. Brow knit together in both concentration and consternation, Frodo opened his mouth. He sat down on my bed, his fists balled tight, eyes falling to the floor. I was surprised, Mr. Baggins never seemed to be a hobbit who was ever at a loss for words. By the strain on his face, he was just as surprised at his loss. I finished folding my clothes and turned to him. His eyes rose in a white hot look of determination, then like a sudden wind whipping away storm clouds, his eyes brightened. 

Before I could blink, Frodo crossed the room. His face close to mine; the ale stale yet sweet on his breath, and I turned my head away. I couldn't look at him, could not trust myself one look in those haunting eyes. 

"I'm sorry Sam," he whispered. "I didn't mean it that way."

"What way did you mean it, Frodo?"

I didn't know why this should hurt so. After all, we hadn't known each other long. I pushed him aside and stalked out of my bedroom. Frodo followed, his feet falling just one step behind mine, his words poured out like elvish runes off my quill. 

"Rusty would never understand..." he said low and quiet, weaving some enchantment on me. "Never would he believe if I told him that you were my friend. He would think there was something more. Something between us."

I was walking in circles and Frodo followed behind. I ended back in my bedroom, standing next to the window, wishing he'd go out.

"He does think there is something more, and you did everything you could to make him think it tonight."

"I had him think I was after you for what you have. He doesn't perceive my being a scoundrel as a threat to him. That is what I am. He accepts me. A friend, now that would be a threat. He understands greed. That is why I told him I was after what was rightly mine."

"Sounds like there's a bit of truth in those words. You're after something Frodo. Now Trawler, he was speakin' the truth. How else would he know about me being the Baggin's heir?"

"Samwise, please. You having what I wanted, it hurt and, true, it hurts still.  Yet, it was never Bilbo's riches that I coveted-- it was his time I envied you. Admittedly from the moment you first came here, I knew who you were. I watched you and for a time, silently, I did hate you. Maybe, not so silently. Also," he scratched under his eye and sighed, "I did tell Rusty how I felt. A mistake for which I am now sorry," he admitted. Sitting heavily on the bed, he looked down into the palms of his hands. "It wasn't an accident the first time I came through your window. The very thing Rusty told you, I did intend to do. After I got to know you that first night... you lending me the books... our talk... I liked you Sam... I liked you. Wasn't your fault, my losing the legacy and Bilbo. I realized I hadn't really lost it all, after all. I look at you now, and I no longer blame you for my lot. With you, I have a bit of Bilbo still."

"I'm to believe this?" I said, turning away from them eyes again.

"Sam?" he whispered. "Sam? Please don't hate me."

"Who are you Frodo Baggins? No Baggins I ever know'd would treat me such. Why did you pester me to come to that farce of a party tonight if you didn't want something from me?"

"I thought the party was going splendidly until Rusty opened his mouth. You honestly thought it a farce? Are you trying to hurt me in turn, Samwise?" He winked at me. My face grew hot. "You may... I deserve what ever insults you throw at me. Insult me as a host if it makes you feel better. It means you care-- it wouldn't hurt if you didn't care," he brightened. "I care. You care, don't you Samwise?"

"Don't you have guests to get back to?" 

"Bah," he said, standing up and walking toward me. "This is more important. You are more important."

"And why am I so important?" He stopped in front of me.

"I need... I need..." his voice faltering as he stared out the window behind me. 

"Well, I'm waiting. What do you need?"

"I need... to believe," he murmured, closing his eyes. 

"What do you need to believe?"

"I need to believe that I matter to someone... more than some object. That's all I am to Trawler."

"What is he to you?" I asked. Not that it mattered to me.

"Security. A home."

"That is it? You are willing to settle for that?"

"Nothing wrong with that. You have too."

"Yes, but there has to be more," I said. "Someone who cares if you're gone tomorrow..." 

"Like Bilbo," Frodo whispered.

I was seething. What was he trying to do, pulling out all these feeling from me like some kind of poultice? Did I matter that much to Bilbo. He left. I pushed past, stomping across the room.

"What makes you believe I care?"  I spat. I stood with my back to him, turning. I waited for an answer. It was mean what I said. I was half sorry I said that now. I sat, landing heavy on my bed, crossing my arms. Frodo eyes flickered open, his pupils wide. He absently tapped his ankle against the chair leg next to him. 

"You just don't watch my lips when I speak," he hesitated a moment, worrying his lip between his teeth. "Even now, angry as you are at me, you are listening. What I say to you matters, Samwise," he sighed and took a few halting steps forward, stepping next to the bed. "Earlier today you sipped tea and took time to tell me which tea service went best and why..."  the bed moved not a hair as he sat quietly next to me. "You don't roll your eyes and whisper under your breath, _'there's that crazy Baggins talkin' 'bout dragons and mountains and all that foolishness.'_ And that night we were telling tales, I fell asleep in that big old chair by the fire. You let me stay there cramped next to you even though it cricked your back."

"That chair is the only bit of furniture I took from Bag End," I said, looking around at this place-- the  frilly curtains, the busy walls with the foreign pictures on them-- there was little that was familiar. 

Right then I thought I was no different than Frodo. My earnings were paid as much from this bed than from my desk. No way I could afford this apartment in Highburrow Hall from pen and ink. Frodo knew as much-- he'd alluded to it moments ago. When first we'd met he'd said as much: _"Falling in bed with those with well lined pockets isn't shallow-- it's sensible. You, of all should know that."_ It made me both angry and embarrassed. 

"I know," he said. 

I blinked, panicking. Frodo saw; he read my mind. He was a Baggins after all. Like Bilbo knowing me inside and out. Bilbo knew when I'd been up to mischief, like pilfering apples from Chubb's orchard or stealing kisses behind Holman Cotton's shed. Frodo may not know about the purse on the mantle, but he knew what I did to keep this place. 

"I knew it the moment I saw it," Frodo continued. My heart sank to my feet. He saw me, hypocrite Samwise Baggins. "That big old chair is _like_ Bilbo. A few stains, lumpy and a bit worn here and there, but fits in all the right places." 

I never felt such relief. The chair. He had meant the chair. I knew then how much his friendship had come mean to me. He took my hand. It was a gentle squeeze, and I felt my heart do the same.

"What's wrong now, Samwise?"

"I thought you meant..." I bit down on my shame; I had to speak it. "When you said you knew... I thought you meant my arrangement, and I'm not referring to placement of furniture in my room if you get my meaning. I'm not happy no how with the way my life is. I fear sometimes that naught will come to me but endless days transcribing whilst taking payment for more than work." 

"Excuse me Sam, that's trifle melodramatic." 

Why was I confiding in Frodo? Hadn't he betrayed my trust? My eyes met his and darted away. 

"We do what we must," Frodo confided. "I do."

"Shame is what I feel. My Gaffer would slap me from here to Bag End for sneaking and such..." 

"It's the 'and such' that is fun," he said bowing his head to look into my eyes. He lifted my chin with his finger. "Samwise, what does it matter unless you are not happy? If you are not, then change what gives you misery. I measure the pain against the gain."

He chuckled as I shook my head.

"Don't look at me like that!" he laughed. "The gain is not always mine."

"I am not happy, and that's a fact."

"Decide what you must, but what ever you decide let what you denied go, holding it only hurts," he said. 

I wondered about his advice. It didn't seem to me one pinch that Frodo had let go of his pain. He embraced it like a wee babe.

"Let go? I think you don't live your own words." 

He bit the side of his lip then smiled.

"Samwise, I do live by my words. I am sorry. That is that. I can say no more. Forgive me," he whispered. The way he said forgive me, 'twas statement of fact. I understood. He knew I'd already forgiven him-- for his comment, for hoodwinking me, for flirting. All forgiven. He squeezed my hand tighter, and I couldn't breathe. "It is true that if you don't, it will hurt me, but I may live with hurt and let it go."

Frodo had said, I didn't look at his lips, I listened. Then why did I only want to look at his lips now?

Ever so slowly, he leaned forward. I stammered a moment as I looked at them. He knew. My eyes flit up as his lips brushed my cheek and met at the corner of my lip. A friendly kiss. A kindly kiss. I didn't understand my heart pounding hard against my chest. 

"Come down in the morning," he said, sliding past me. "Late morning, or better, second breakfast. I think we should talk."

And stepping out the window, he winked at me. "Best get to my guests."

I watched, not moving from my bed. Frodo's hands still clung to the sill. Then I heard him say ever so quietly, "Thank you Samwise for being my friend," and he was gone.

\--------------------------

That next day my benefactress chose to have our monthly meeting in the morning instead of our regular evening call. It was well past second breakfast, and she was still a bed. I tried to make excuses to her.  None worked. The sun was falling from the sky when she finally set my monthly purse on the mantle. She jangled it first. The sound was hollow to my ears as it slipped from her fingers. She stared at the mantle, hand resting next to the purse. 

"Samwise," she said, smoothing her hair as she turned to face me, "you really must learn to be more tactful. You've yet to learn what I expect. The simpleton gardener was charming at first, but now it is trite. If you wish to keep our arrangement, know that when I am here my needs are first. I am all that should concern you, and if I am not, at least pretend I am. Now kiss me proper Samwise."

I pulled her to me. I tried my best to put some effort into the kiss. The corner of her lip curled up as I pulled away. She patted my cheek and pulled her shawl snug around her shoulders. 

I saw her to the door. In the stairwell below, Frodo was there, letting himself in his door. He looked up and through me to my guest, his eyes sad. Why oh why had decided now of all times to actually use his door? Frodo watched her sullenly. There was no mistaking the reason for the swing in her hips as she left. The curl on her lips twisted as she brushed past Frodo. I was a coward. I closed my door.

I felt empty. I waited. 

Thus my great inner conflict began. I could not decide what I must. 

Days passed. No knock. No window tapping. No bother. Oh, how I wanted him to bother me. How could one kiss matter so much more than another? Frodo wanted a friend. I wanted... 

Even in my confusion, I knew he was special. I missed him, but I was afraid. Afraid of who I was, what I'd become. What she had said, my compliance to her, made me loath myself all the more. I couldn't be like Frodo and live with it or let it go.

I began to wonder if Frodo really couldn't either. What did he need? Was his kiss truly chaste? 

Three more days came and went. I avoided him, or he me, I was not certain which. It was on a bitter morning when I picked up the _Westfarthing Weekly_ and read in the gentry-folk section: "Master and Mistress Grandgerford Goldworthy wish to announce the bethrothal of  their daughter, Gillinda Goldworthy to Master Randolfo Trawler, son of Master and Mistress Raldo Trawler of  Michel Delving." 

Gilly his roommate. Gilly his friend. I judged Frodo no more. I made a pact with my heart that I would be a friend, a true friend. I would be what _he_ needed. At last I knocked on his door. No answer. 

Over the next days, I watched for him. He slipped in and out. I saw him on the street, walking away. I stood at his door; I stood at my window. I waited, listened, wondered. That he was avoiding me, I was certain.

I paid my rent to Wellwishes late. Unlike me, but I could not bring myself to touch the purse on the mantel until Wellwishes pounded at my door. 

My days I filled with ink, my nights with drink. Nary a word I read from Bilbo's books. The walls of my apartment were empty, yet the thought of fellowship outside my door left me dower. Still I could no longer face an evening looking at that dreadful wallpaper. I chanced to step out. The night was as starless and as chill as my disposition. I  wrapped my self possession around me as I walked. Way lead to way and my feet found the doors of the _Buck and Breeches_. 

The smell of hickory and pine greeted me as I was seated at my customary small table in the corner near the rear door.  I sipped ale whilst watching life spill from barrels. Ol' Tom was caterwauling about his tired feet again, and the barkeep, Rigamor, moaned about his strained shoulder. Nothing had changed from last I came. I found this somewhat comforting.

I lazed back and took out my pipe, letting the familiar lull me. After some Old Tobey and too many pints to count, I tired of watching the door blow in and out patrons. It only brought the sour wind. I had drank myself into a serious stupor. My eyelids grew heavy from both drink and weariness. I rested my head back against the pine wall behind me and was just about ready to doze when Amber Frostbottom startled me from my nap.

Her cheeks were flushed and bosoms overflowing from the heavy brocade. She plunked her ampleness into the chair next to mine, splashing the ale from her mug.

"Samwise, isn't it?" she inquired. 

"Yes, I am. Nice to meet you again, Madam Frostbottom. We were formally introduced at Frodo's party," I said, trying my best to sound sober.

"No need to be formal. We're at the _Buck and Breeches_. Amber to you my dear... and you know my dear husband, that gentlehobbit speaking to Frodo by the fire," she motioned.

My eyes shot up and over to the large fire place in the center of the inn. There stood Frodo, his back was to me, but there was no mistaking the subtle tilt of the head and laugh.

"Yes it seems I'm one of the few he hasn't done his best to be rid of," she said. "The way he's gone about town. I do think his brains have gone to his arse."

"Umm," I said, sloshing my ale. I tipped it up. "There's the bottom."

"Pardon?"

"The bottom of my mug..."

"I thought you might be meanin' Frodo's bottom," she laughed. "A nice one, at least that's what I hear tell. Many have admired it thus could be why his brains are so addled with his head stuck up there and all those cocks prodding it..."

"What?! Frodo?!" Even years later, Amber Frostbottom would shock me, but I was a young lad then and hadn't heard such words spoken aloud before, except bragging out in the field when I was a tween. "What are you speaking about?" I blushed.

He'd heard me squeak his name. He started over to our table.

"Why Frodo," she said to him as he stopped dead in front of us. "I was telling Samwise you used to be particular. Now you take up with common wealth like that Alfonso Brockhouse."

"Amber, leave this alone," he said.

"This has to do with that Trawler marrying Gilly," she leaned into me, whispering loud enough for all them at three tables over to hear. "Not the first time a roommate run off with a the other's man. Now what's wrong with this lad is what I came to ask."

"We're friends," I said. "Only friends. At least so I thought. I haven't seen him since that night."

"I've been elsewhere," was all Frodo said.

I frowned into my empty mug. I wasn't near drunk enough.

"That Brockhouse paws Frodo like a tom after a cat in heat," Madam Frostbottom said to me.

Memories of Brockhouse yowling at Frodo's door did remind me of a Tom cat. 

"When Frodo disappeared after you Samwise at the party, I thought he'd finally found a nice lad," she said, patting the chair between us. "Sit down Frodo. Unless Alfonso is meeting you."

He scrapped the chair hard across the floor and sat down heavy like. "He's not meeting me," Frodo huffed.

"Good," I said, slapping my hand over my mouth and wishing I could take it back.

Frodo laughed.

I laughed.

Madam Frostbottom always knew the opportune time to leave. She excused herself right quick like. I decided I'd had enough. Frodo helped me back to my apartment. He got me to bed. Before he left out the window, he asked me if I had ever gone to Tiffany's. I said no.

"You will tomorrow. Second breakfast," was all he said. 

I never had as good a dream as I had that night.


	6. Betwixt Pages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter not beta'd

The call came dreamy, sing-song: "Samwise! Oh, Samwise!" He was early, under my window, pelting stones against the sill, calling me down. As dark clouds in the sky warned of rain, I hurried. "To Tiffany's we go," he sang up to me again. "Oh, Samwise!"

I grabbed my brown weskit, thrust my arms in, then distractedly fastened my buttons askew. I looked down with a frown and sighed, no time to button again. I raced to the window, thrust it wide. 

Too late I spied the pebble. I rubbed the spot where it stung my forehead and grumbled under my breath. Frodo's laughter rose from the alley. 

"Samwise!" he called again. I thrust my head out and ducked as another pebble flew by my ear. I fear I raised my head too fast, the sound of my skull cracking into the frame came directly before the sharp pain  bit back of my head. 

"Get your silly arse down here. Come!" he laughed. I felt a complete oaf, yet was heartened by Frodo's giggles below. Such rich laughter it was-- made me blush to be the cause. My eyes met his, and a smile tickled lips as red as the roses in the bushes below and as just as winding. With a nod, I swung my legs over, hands purchased on the sill until I had my footing on the trellis. I made my way. I must say that in my haste climbing down, I almost lost my grip. Upon catching myself, I turned to see Frodo; he smiled and waved up at me. The sky darkened and air thickened with far off thunder, making it appear to be a light about him. 

In one hand he carried a small basket. He was dressed plain today. White blouse, brown breeches. More for comfort.

I made the rest of the way down the trellis with no other incidents, glad to find myself on solid ground. His cat greeted me with a mew and a purr. As I brushed off my trousers, she wove between my legs. 

Basket swinging, he took me by the hand and lead me.

"I fear it may rain, best be moving." But those words Frodo did not heed. Instead, we milled through the old cobblestone streets of Westfarthing. We passed the Town Hole, laughing and looking. I felt remiss to have lived in such a place and never know the stories behind and within the walls. Frodo knew of all the houses, all the corners, all the history rich in time and in memory. He even knew the gossip surrounding all these places, most of which turned my ears blood-red. We walked on and on. Though tired, Frodo's exuberance quenched my bones. At last Frodo stopped. The street was quiet where we stood. No pony carried cart on the street nor passerby trod the walks. We were alone. 

My eyes followed his gaze. There was the most incredible storefront I had ever seen. Fine stain-glass of luscious fruits and winding foliage adorned the edges of the sparkling store front window, the size if which amazed. Inside, all manner of curios and fineries tickled the senses. My eyes rested on a beautifully carved chair of golden wood. This was the store front of Tiffany's. 

"For our party, a private party for two," Frodo said, opening the basket. Pulled out a small table cloth and smoothed it out. He knelt down and bought out a corked bottle of Old Winyards. Then he brought out cake. He broke off a piece and popped it in my mouth, then licked his fingers after with savoring bliss. It was delicious. We passed the bottle, savoring each swig. I mussed the cuffs of my shirt with one swipe. We ate every crumb between us. Sticky-sweetness, all rolled up neat in a red checkered napkin, which Frodo used to wipe the corners of my mouth when done. Oddly, I didn't blush.

"This is my favorite place in all of Michel Delving," Frodo exclaimed, wiping off the last crumb. "Sometimes I won't even go inside, just sit here and look in. Most times I remain outside, looking in like we are now, imaging the wonders that will meet me when I finally step inside."

A few drops of rain fell, large drops but few. 

"If you look way it the back, you can see it," Frodo said. His slim finger pointed reverently, careful not to mark the glass. "That is my favorite place in my Tiffany's."

I squinted. I saw. Shelves. 

Shelves and shelves and shelves. 

Filled with books. 

He took my hand for the second time that day, and we stepped inside Tiffany's together just before the sky opened.

The moment we stepping inside we were greeted by a slight, kindly lass with fine blonde hair, cropped short, yet not unbecoming. Her eyes were bright green, as green as blades of summer grass. Her ears fine and pointed. Lips smooth. At first glance, I thought her young, then I observed fine lines around her eyes. She looked like no hobbit I had ever seen. He voice was what made me blink. "Master Baggins!" she called. Twas musical. 

Frodo pulled me to her. He stood straighter, then bowed. "Tiffany, this is my dear friend, Samwise Baggins. Sam, this is Tiffany."

I bowed low. "Please to meet you. Is it _Madame_ Tiffany?" She smiled, and all the room seemed to brighten.

"No need to be so formal. You may call me Tiffany." She turned to Frodo, nodding to me. "This is a treasure, two Master Baggins. You never bring anyone with you. Samwise must be very special."

"Yes, he is. He has a great love for books."

She then turned to Frodo and began to speak, not plain like myself, but as what I recognized as elvish. Frodo spoke back, just as fluidly as she. It was Sindarin, I was certain for I understood a few words here and there such as "friend" and "welcome" and "family." Then he leaned into me and whispered in my ear conspiratorially, "I think she likes you." I blushed to my toes.

Tiffany waved us to the back. On the way, we looked at all the marvels: 

An umbrella with a handle carved with a dragons head. "Carved by Noldor elves," Frodo said, "from the tooth of a dragon." 

A pipe that glowed fiery-red "cut by dwarf, held captive for his skills," Frodo whispered. "This was mined from depths of the earth." 

A gold chalice simple, perfect. Then there was this fabric, grey it looked, and then with a move of the eye would change. "It's made from hithlain. Feel-- like silk."

Then the books. All sizes, plain to the eye, eye, yet when Frodo slipped one from the stacks, blowing off the dusk, I shook with wonder. 

"She lets me read them. Here, I'll show you where I go to sit."

I looked up. Tiffany watched us. Her eyes, they were not a hobbits. Then, I knew.

"She, she is elf," I gasped.

"She has elfish blood in her."

"Does she come by many of her treasures through them that she knows?" I asked.

"Yes, although I have never met them, she speaks of them often to me. This place is not frequented by many, but those who do come here travel from places we can only read about. I dream of seeing such places someday. I dream of many things, much of which I fear shall never pass."

We both sat at a low oak table. Rain pelted the window behind us, thunder rumbled above, and we were cozy in the corner of the room. 

Frodo slowly turned the pages in the book and read to me. Tiffany watched in silence from her chair, the one I had seen from the window. Frodo and I bowed heads together. Time was not a worry. Frodo read, I listened, and betwixt pages Frodo would tell me how he used to dream of elves and dragons, ships and seas. The storm outside grew still and then began again-- quieter than before. Lightning illuminated the pages with each flash. He shared parts of many books with love and longing. He translated some bits, and some bits he read, ringing with the magic of the elvish words. Candlelight between us, I felt my heart grow, a stirring, and looking back to that day, I knew that was when I came to truly love him. 

That day at Tiffany's changed all between. I saw Frodo's heart, I saw his dreams and I met his fear. It was the last tale he shared with me of Beren and the Simaril that I first heard the name "Sauron." A shadow fell upon Frodo as he read. It was my turn to take his hand. As day closed its eyes and all shops its doors, Frodo still read of Beren and Lúthien. At last he finished, both of us with tears. Frodo whispered to me, "There are things I have told no one about myself, dark things."

I wondered, what part of darkness could be in Frodo when all I saw in him was light. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by angharad001 and mews1945

On the way home, the shadow held Frodo. The day had been filled with such charm and wonder that I had forgotten time. How little we had left of our day together at Tiffany's. I looked to him now, and dared to ask, "Will you speak to me of the dark things?"

We stopped. The street was empty; we were but a few barrows down from our homes at Highburrow. He looked at me and whispered, "Yes."

He spoke not a word the rest of the way home. We took the stairs, not the trellis, and to his room we went. There I sat next to him on the bench, near the mantel.

"Before I left Buckland," Frodo began, "I had a visitor. That was why I left Buckland and was why I came here. Esmeralda  forbaide me, but I left one night. I felt sad about leaving that way, but I had no choice."

Frodo turned his face from me.

"Who was this visitor?" I asked.

"You know him well," Frodo sighed, looking up his face shadowed. "Gandalf."

"Gandalf? The wizard?" How naive I was. I only thought of Gandalf as a friend of Bilbo's, a kindly old man who told a fine tale. Although I had seen some of his tricks, I never thought of him as a wizard, as such. 

"Gandalf," Frodo repeated. "He gave me a box. Inside was a book of Bilbo's, the one where he'd written his story of all his adventures with Gandalf and the dwarves."

"That Red Book!" I said, excitedly. "I always wondered what became of it. How I loved to hear Bilbo tell the story."

"It wasn't a story, Sam. It was real-- at least for the most part."

"I... I know," I stammered. "But that can't be what all this darkness is about."

"The book wasn't all that was in the box." Frodo said, his eyes turning as dark as his countenance. He hesitated. I knew he was not sure what or how much to say-- I waited. 

"What?"  I asked, finally.

He studied me, quiet. At last he sighed and patted his vest.

"The Ring." 

"Bilbo's ring?" I asked, dumbfounded. 

"Yes." Frodo reached into the front pocket of his weskit. "This ring, Sam." There it rested in the palm of his hand. For a moment I thought I heard something, a voice calling me, calling my name. I shook my head and looked up at Frodo. His eyes met mine. "Gandalf opened the box, and he warned me to be careful with the Ring. Not to put it on. He spoke to me and told me the story from where it came, from a dark place."

"Bilbo found it..."

"Under the Misty Mountains, in Gollum's cave..."

"Gollum? But, no, that's not what Bilbo told me."

"Ah, that's not what he wrote in his book either. Gandalf said he felt a power in the Ring-- sometimes I wonder if this is all just foolishness. But Bilbo had this ring for many years, and he never aged."

Any other hobbit would have called Frodo crazy. But I didn't. I'd heard the ring calling, and Frodo's last words struck me and a chill prickled my skin.

"No, he never aged," I whispered. "I think it might be wise to mind Gandalf's advice."

Frodo shoved the ring back in his pocket. 

"I will."

Before I went home, I made sure Frodo tucked the Ring safely away, hidden behind the books on the mantel.

\----------------------------

Days passed. Time came for my own visitor, one I had been dreading. My benefactress came in early one morning, using her own key. Her eyes raked over me as I sat blurry-eyed and rumpled on the edge of my bed, yawning from a late night of story telling before. She shook her head at me.

"Samwise, you look a mess. It's time we made new rules, it seems." She stood in front of me, fingered the front buttons of my night shirt and sighed. "I've heard whispers that you've been catting about-- rumors that you've taken up with some rapscallion named Frodo Baggins."

"I won't call it 'catting about.' He's a friend." I sat up defensively.

"A _friend_?" she huffed, then thumped my chest with her finger. As she spun around, she spied two pipes side-by-side on a tray near my desk, exclaiming, "You will not have a friend such as this, Samwise-- if indeed that is _what_ he is. I will not permit you to keep company with this, this, hobbit. His named his tarnished. He's nothing but a whoresome vagrant." 

"You don't know him. You have no right to say much things." With every word, I became more and more enraged. 

"You will not see him."

"I'll see him any time I wish."

"Then, Samwise, you'll not be seeing any more of me." She stamped her foot. "Make your choice and remember that all this," she waved her arm at the room, "goes with me."

"Then it goes, " I said grimly. "You think so badly of me. You think I accept your amenities, _your payment_ , for what? A good fucking once a month?"

"Don't talk to me like that, Samwise Baggins!"

"I should have said goodbye long ago. I'll be out of this place when the rent expires." I felt strong then, having made my choice.

"You'ill be out of here and on the streets today," she said, stamping toward the door. "I _will_ see to it." And with that, she slammed the door, rocking the ugly painting I so despised off the nail on the wall. I smiled as it crashed to the floor.

Master Wellwishes came to call before second breakfast, handing me an eviction notice. I was to be out of my home by the morrow.

Frodo, of course, over heard it all: the  words with Wellwishes, with my benefactress. His solution was that I should move in with him. I was a bit concerned that he'd be evicted as well for harboring me, but Frodo waved me off, "As long as Wellwishes receives payment, he won't care. And my dear Samwise, you'll not have far to move." 

I wasn't completely comfortable with the arrangement but 'twas much better than then the alternative. I took leave of my senses and moved in with Frodo

\-----------------. 

With the exception of a bookcase and Bilbo's chair, I had no real furniture. Books and clothing were all I had to move. Frodo and I carried my possessions back and forth like ants. Moving the bookcase, I bore the weight on my back at first. Then Frodo insisted that he could be of more help. To my surprise, Frodo carried his share with no complaint, navigating the stairs and doorways far better than I did. 

Books next, piled high in boxes hoisted upon our backs, and we wore a trail from up and down. Between each set, we rested but a brief moment. As I put the last box on the floor, I looked around us at the havoc we'd made of Frodo's room. 

"It's been far worse," Frodo said, rummaging around in his cabinets. "I think I have cheese in the pantry and some bread. Yes, would tea be fine?" I only nodded, for I was in a stupor. Frodo still danced around the apartment as if he hadn't lifted a box. Bilbo's chair was all that was left to move. We ate first, and then made the last trip to my apartment. We picked up the chair, and I looked back for the last time at the garish walls as I carried the chair with Frodo. It had been my home for a time, no matter the cause or consequence or how atrocious the decorating, and I had memories, some better forgotten, but many of them fond like the window. I smiled, recalling our first meeting, Frodo crawling through that window. 

Paying no mind to carrying Bilbo's chair, pain roused me from my day dreaming. I'd smashed my finger between the chair and the door frame. 

"What happened?" Frodo asked.

"Nothing much." 

We carried the chair to his apartment, drops of  blood trailing behind. We traversed the stairs and at last  made our way into his apartment. Through the door, around and over boxes, we found a space to put the chair. 

Frodo frowned, shaking his head, "You're bleeding." He fetched a damp cloth, tenderly washed the blood off my hand, inspected my finger. "Not too bad, Sam, but you'll lose that fingernail."

"I've had far worse blisters from hoeing the garden."

He still held my hand, using a cloth to blind it. The room was still. My face grew warm, and Frodo's cheeks flushed, but still Frodo held on. 

"Sam?" He inched closer. Then a knock came at the door. 

We flew apart as Wellwishes poured in through the open door dressed in his usual moth-eaten attire.

"I knew should have shut the door," Frodo muttered under his breath.

"You've taken up residence here, I see," Wellwishes said to me. "You," he said to Frodo, "are to inform me of any new room mates. I could evict you for this."

"Ah, you could," Frodo laughed, "but then Widow Willows would learn about your late night trips to Widow Smallbutton's. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

Wellwishes turned green as the grass on Brockenbore's Hill. Or mayhap as green as the tea strain on his bathrobe, either way, he left the room with nary another word.

The next few days were uneventful, I organized Frodo's home, sought new employment, and read. Some evenings, Frodo went out, but never long. Most evenings, we spent in playful banter before his fire where we'd put Bilbo's chair. I found having Frodo as a roommate worked well. We shared making meals and although Frodo was no one to pick up after himself, I did not mind, after all, it was I who had come into his space. We were both content, or so I believed. It was on the second week on a cool morning that Frodo brought out the Red Book. 

We sat in Bilbo's chair together, taking turns reading aloud the parts we loved best, all the time laughing at the different versions Bilbo told and them comparing to the book before us. We became lost, admiring Bilbo's illustrations of woods and dragons, of a world we could only imagine. When we came to the riddles, Frodo grew still and set the book aside. 

"Samwise? Do you think that some things are meant to be?" Frodo frowned and worried the corner of the book with his index finger.

"You mean that life's decided for us?" I asked, blinking. 

"Yes, something like that."

I frowned and looked up, picturing the possibility in my mind. "I'd like to think that we make our own future, as it were."

"I was thinking-- our meeting-- do you think it was meant to be?"

It had either been my mistake or my blessing, I looked in them eyes and watched as they turned the color of water running deep. He meant more, much more. He caught his top lip between his teeth. My breath caught in my throat. He set the book aside, and he touched my cheek with his fingers softly, so softly. 

My face grew hot, and my heart pumped in my ears. Slowly, slowly his face came closer to mine. He kissed me then. Not some chaste kiss all pure and white as before but a lover's kiss, all fire and heat. I let him take my mouth, spilling all the want and longing I had inside him. It terrified and thrilled me both. Then I began to shake. I pulled away and stumbled across the room. 

"Samwise? Where are you going? Samwise, come back."

All I could think of was lovers past-- ones who called to him on the stairs and ones who tossed him aside. Would I be like all the others? Would I do the same to him? Panic, terror, want, desire, flooded me. I left him standing near the chair. 

I rushed down the stairs and out into the street. 


	8. The Rolling Hills of Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by mews1945

I stumbled down the streets. I wandered, no purpose, no place for hours. When darkness came, it was but a reflection of my heart. At last, I found myself in front of Tiffany's. I stood at front of the window, looking in and I saw her sitting on the same chair of golden wood. Her eyes the color of green meadows, saw into me, welcomed me. Her finger crooked and beckoned, _come, Samwise, come._

I went. I followed her. Around the shelves, around the cases. Behind curtains. Stored there were treasures and books with tales beyond my imagination, in shelves easily ten times my height. She pointed to a seat and sat herself down lightly in the seat next to me.

"You are confused."

I nodded piteously.

"You are afraid."

I shrugged.

She patted my knee; she knew my answer without a word.

"Frodo Baggins is a queer one, most will say," she said, retrieving a book near her on a shelf. "I often hear these words whispered behind his back. He hears it, too." She carefully turned the pages as she spoke. "I see in your eyes, you have as well. Mayhap you've even thought the same? You often thought him impulsive. Now, you are not as certain. I will tell you this about Frodo: To those who do not know him, and for even those who do, he appears blithe, carefree. That is what he wants others to believe." She stopped on a page, looking from the words into my eyes. "Only that. He cares not unless he cares for. Never doubt his heart."

"I, I don't. I just doubt mine, if you get my meaning. I'm afraid I won't be strong enough. I'll let him down."

She smiled at me, and it seemed a thousand candles shimmered all at once. She nodded down to the book in her hand. "This is tale of such an elf," she said, fingers caressing the pages. "One who did not belong, one who was forsaken by the one he trusted most. Isn't that what you have just done to Frodo? You ran from him. What were you running from, dear Samwise? Look inside and you will see."

My heart hammered so I thought that she must hear its guilt as well. Since I would not answer, she did so for me.

"You run from your heart. You have been forsaken as much as he. The pain in Frodo is as deep as your own. He lets you see inside because he cares. What have you shared? He is but a mirror on which you are afraid to fix."

"Do you think he feels the same, feels the same way about me, that is."

"Ah. What he feels. It is what you feel that worries Frodo. You are mirror unto each other. And how do you feel about him, Samwise?" 

"He's light and dark and all that's wondrous."

"And?"

"My dear friend. He is my friend before all else. I've come to care for him."

"Care?"

The words I had only let myself know I spoke: "I love him."

"At last." She looked upon me. 

"He needs you now. Go to him."

I started away. She called after me, "What will you do with your heart?"

I stopped, my back still toward her. "Tell."

"Then waste no time. Go."

I ran out the door, down the streets. Back through alleys. To Highburrow Hall. Up the stairs. Opened the door.

"Frodo!" I called. There was no answer. He was gone. I stood in the middle of his bedroom, Pussy winding around my feet. Think! I had to think! Where was he? I had to find him! I bounded out-- the one place he was sure to go-- I knew I won't have to go much farther than the _Buck and Breeches_.

\-----------------------

I found him there, but I dared not approach him in such a place for it wasn't a place to bare one's heart. I watched him from the back of the room instead. Followed him home as he wobbled and weaved his way. Watched him go in the front of Highburrow. Wise it was, since he'd had plenty of ale, and that's a fact. I waited in the shadows, wondering if this was the right time. I thought it best to speak to him in the morning, when he was sober and day was new. It was then that I turned my eyes up to his window and noticed a light flicker. I didn't recall a candle burning there before. Then I saw a long shadow pass before the window. He had company and the company did not look to be friendly. Large the shadow was ominous. At once I was filled with dread-- my hands grew cold, my feet grew weak. The tale Frodo had told me, all his apprehension, all his trepidation, were coming to fruition. A man was in his room. A man. 

I climbed the trellis, as fast I could without making noise. I feared for Frodo. When I was but half way up voices came from the open window. Just below the window the smell of rich pipe smoke reached me wafting with it old memories. I heard Frodo, voice hushed. Then the other. A voice I knew from my childhood. 

"A mortal, Frodo, who keeps one of the great rings, fades. He become invisible permanently, and walks the twilight under the eye of the dark power that rules the Rings."  

_Gandalf._

"How terrifying!" Frodo said. Long moments they did not speak. I clung to the trellis, waiting, listening. When Gandalf began again, it was to tell Frodo much of what he'd learned. At last he told Frodo to fetch the Ring. I peeked over the sill to see Gandalf throw the envelope into the hearth, and after some moments, Gandalf used the poker and retrieved the Ring from the fire, dropping it in Frodo's hand. No, I almost shouted, but I had nothing to fear, for the Ring was cool in Frodo's hand. What kind of ring, I thought, would not burn after being in such a fire? I was all but lost in what was happening, hardly caring that I might be noticed. I thought better, for now I ducked below the sill.

"Can you see any markings on it?" Gandalf asked. It was all I could do not to peek over to see.

"No."

I heard Gandalf give a relieved sigh. I did the same. Then Frodo said sharply, "Wait!"  

"There's something, some kind of markings on the Ring. I can't read the fiery letters-- it's some language I don't know"

I listened as Gandalf told him they were from the language of Mordor and he recited the verse in Common Tongue: _One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them..._

I was terrified. All that Gandalf said after became a blur: the Master-ring, the Dark Lord, Ringwraiths, Elven kings and the story of Gollum. And then Gandalf said, "the Ring must be destroyed in the Cracks of Doom in the depths of Orodruin, the Fire-mountain. Someone must take and cast the Ring there."

And then he talked of Frodo leaving, and leaving quickly. My heart flew to my throat! Leaving! Leaving me? No! How I could let my Frodo leave with out Samwise? I heard the panic in Frodo's voice asking where he should go, what he should do. By then I was beside myself-- Gandalf was telling Frodo to head for Bree, telling Frodo he'd meet him at the Prancing Pony. Did he mean to let Frodo go alone and in such danger?

I do not know how long Gandalf knew I was at the window. Looking back, I believe he knew all the while, but at that time, I did not-- I heard the whack of his staff on the sill and thought I had but only then been found out. He hauled me roughly through the window by the hair, banging my knees and feet on the sill. 

"Confound it all Samwise Baggins! Have you been eavesdropping?!" he bellowed, pulling me up to my wobbly feet.

"I admit, the eaves do need fixing, but I haven't touched a one. It's the roses, sir-- I've been pruning..." 

"A little late for cultivating blooms, don't you think?"

"I heard raised voices," I admitted.

"What did you hear, Samwise? Speak!"

"Nothing much. Some words about a Ring and a Dark Lord and something about the end of the world. But please, Mr. Gandalf sir, um, don't turn me into anything unnatural."

He looked at me long, then said, "No, I think not. I have a better use for you."

"If you don't mind me making a suggestion, Mr. Gandalf, could I go with Frodo, sir?"

Gandalf thumped his staff on the floor, and turned to Frodo.

"How much did you tell Samwise?"

"He knows all that I know--"

"I don't think Frodo should be going alone," I said, trying my best to look the part of someone who'd help Frodo, not hinder. Gandalf's mouth twitched. I blinked. I believed he was almost smiling. 

"Then it's decided," Gandalf said. "Samwise will go with you. You should not wait, but go at once."

"Will Frodo be safe there?" I asked.

"I don't know. Nothing is certain: that is why I must meet you later; I must speak to the head of my order."

Frodo and I hurried, collecting items to take-- pots, pans, and foods like breads and cheese. At last we were ready, and Gandalf led the way through the cobbled streets and rolling hills I called home.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd always meant to write more on this but never got around to it. Still, I like the ending and how it fits in to both stories.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr: [**elwinglyre Tumblr**](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/)!


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